Page 47 of Wounded Dance
His fingers tangle through my hair. “I guess it’s not the worst week of your life, though,” he says. “Is it?”
I shake my head against his shoulder.
“You want to tell me about the worst?” he asks.
I’m not sure I do, but he waits so patiently that I find it is easy to release the memories to him.
“Denham and I didn’t have a lot of time together before it blew up,” I say. “That week was the worst week.”
The bad days flood back. August, really, was our month, the week before school started, when he taught me to drive, then the first weeks of school when we were messing around, and finally became lovers.
Late September was when it all fell apart.
Denham and I were like magnets, unable to pull away from each other. We joined clubs at school, and stayed for homework help, anything to spend less time at home. We would duck out early, buying ourselves time before we were expected home.
Denham had friends all over, and we borrowed their bedrooms, their cars, and finally discovered a broken-down travel trailer in the backyard of a neighbor, unlocked and unused.
It became our space.
The dark period of my life began when Denham confessed to me that we shared a father. We were in the trailer, cuddled up on the narrow bed with a blanket we’d brought and kept there.
I was talking about Andy, who had just turned four. He had asked for a black leather jacket so he could “be like his brother.”
“You’re so good with him,” I told Denham. “It’s like you really are his brother.”
His face contorted at that and a strangled sound came out of his throat.
“Denham? What’s wrong?” We were naked, as usual, and when I sat up, the blanket fell to my waist.
He glanced at my body, then covered me as if he couldn’t bear to look at me. “Livia, we can’t do this anymore.”
This made me sit up. “What do you mean? I love you. You love me! That is all that matters.”
“No,” he said, shifting away. “That’s not all that matters. Shit.”
He shoved the blanket away and set his feet on the floor. He sat hunched over, his head in his hands.
I curled around him, my cheek on his back. “What else matters?”
“Family,” he said. “Your parents have been good to me. And Andy. God, that little kid. Everything he knows is a lie.”
My heartbeat slammed in my ears. I had no idea what he could be talking about, but his voice was scaring me.
He stood up, forcing me to break away from him. A streetlamp on the corner formed pale lines across his skin from the blinds. I couldn’t make out his face.
“I treat Andy like a brother because he IS my brother, Livia. The reason I live with your family now is because your dad is my dad.”
I held the blanket to my chest, not sure I understood. The words were too much, spilling over like a pitcher that was too full. “What are you saying, Denham?”
He stepped close to me then and took my shoulders in his hands, gripping them like a vise. “I’m your brother, Livia. Your half-brother. Your father was with my mother. She had me. That’s why I’m here now.”
My body revolted. I started dry-heaving, clutching my belly, my breath coming in pants.
“Livia, I’m sorry. I should have stayed away. I should have.” Denham tried to hold me, but I curled in on myself. I was blindsided by pain. Everything hurt. My belly. My burning eyes. My heart felt ready to burst.
“Talk to me, Livia. Say you don’t hate me.”
But I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t talk at all. I huddled, trying to manage the trauma and the pain. It was horrible. He was my brother. And we did things. All the things. Everything.
